


Met halfway

by withswords



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Demon Aziraphale (Good Omens), First Kiss, Flirting, Historical, M/M, Roleswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withswords/pseuds/withswords
Summary: Emoji prompt ficlets from tumblr following angel Crowley and demon Aziraphale. Ongoing-ish.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 10





	1. sitting in a tree

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts:  
> 1) 🤞🌳🏹  
> 2) 🕴️😈💋

The Angel of the Eastern Gate nocked his arrow, the tip flaring with white fire. “Don’t come any closer,” he drawled with the ease of someone used to being ignored. From his place in the tree, his long, dark wings had room to flutter freely. They beat slow ripples into the grass below.

The white serpent blinked up at him as though he was surprised to have been spotted. He shouldn’t have been. Iridescent white and blue didn’t blend well with greenery. 

“Dear me,” said the serpent, and then he was something like a man, reposing in the long grass at the edge of the orchard. Long, long white hair tumbled down around white wings and sooty black robes. “You’ve got a very good eye, haven’t you.”

Assuming this was some kind of sarcasm, because who had ever heard of a sincere demon, the angel scoffed, “I certainly must have. Now scoot.”

The demon, whose name was Aziraphale, did not scoot. He picked at the grass and twirled it in his fingers. “Come now, I’m not causing any trouble. Be a waste of a perfectly good arrow.”

“Well, it’s only a matter of time.”

“And I see you’ve only got the one.”

The angel squinted at him; Aziraphale returned a beatific smile. His idle hands twisted a few strands of grass together. “I say- this might be a silly question, but aren’t you supposed to be guarding the gate?”

Aziraphale had slipped in with no trouble at all and had been tempted to call on the legions to storm the place. It was practically undefended! But then again, it would be nice to have some peace and quiet, he had thought, and the garden was very pretty, and the sky was very blue. Shortly after, he had discovered the mortal invention of ‘eating.’ Any plans to ruin his own little slice of paradise with the irritation of other demons, who were all very boorish and unfun compared to him, were stamped out.

“I mean, technically, I s’pose.” The angel shrugged, bouncing the white-flame arrow. “Hell of a lot easier my way. Folks up there just said, get down there and keep things safe, so I figure– God says don’t eat from the tree of blah blah blah, that makes the tree the most tactically significant spot in the Garden. And it definitely means your sort isn’t welcome ‘round it, so. Scoot.”

Aziraphale gasped. “That is a very astute deduction! You’re a clever one.”

“Don’t– don’t fucking patronize me, mate.”

“No, no! Oh goodness, I hope I don’t sound insincere. I really do think that was good work of you, very well done. Most angels can be so rigid. I admire the flexibility.” The angel looked down, and in his lap, Aziraphale had just finished weaving together a crown of grass. “I’m sure you’ve seen me slithering about, then. I only came over here because I haven’t managed to try the fruit of this tree yet. I’ve been all over the Garden, and had nearly all of it.”

“You can’t eat of the tree of knowledge of good and evil,” the angel balked.

“Well why not?”

“Well! Because you’re a demon. Just stands to reason, don’t it?”

“She never said that though, did She?” Aziraphale sniffed. “She said the humans mustn’t eat it. I heard Her quite clearly. But it _stands to reason_ that you or I already have knowledge of good and evil. It would be very like Her to make a fruit like that taste very excellent, so I think, there’s no choice but to try it. Just once. For my own… edification.”

The angel lowered his bow at last. “You’re not a very good demon, are you?”

“Oh, no. One of the worst!”

“And you swear, no funny business?”

Aziraphale crossed his fingers over his heart. “No funny business.”

Eventually, the angel let him come up. Aziraphale stood and with one flap of his egret wings, he settled on a branch. The crown, he dropped onto the angel’s head. It was a little too large and drooped over one of the angel’s eyes, and he scowled but refused to straighten it out.

Aziraphale plucked a fruit, red and round. “Matches your hair,” he remarked, running his fingers over the thick, waxy rind. With a gentle pull, the fruit separated into halves, with jewels of flesh inside shining just as red. The angel, who had never seen the inside of the fruit before, leaned over with a mite of curiosity.

“Have you eaten?”

The angel glanced up, golden eyes caught out and wide. “Er. No. Haven’t seen the point.”

“Could I-” Aziraphale paused to giggle at himself- “could I tempt you, perhaps?”

He almost refused. It was his instinct to refuse, naturally. But he had put his arrow back in its quiver already, and his hands were empty. He took one jewel from the skin of the fruit, and so did Aziraphale. He placed it between his lips.

They looked at one another, suddenly feeling, under the gaze of the other, quite naked.


	2. a man of many turns

“Let us recount the deeds of the day,” bubbled a voice from below a sagging hood. It made a sickly echo in the grand marble foyer, like a heavy footfall in a swamp, or a wet fart. “I have sown corruption in the heart of a wealthy man; he will be tempted to hoard his grain rather than share it with the poor! In five years, we shall have him.”

A leaner figure nodded in chagrined approval. “I have bent the ear of an adviser to Nebuchadnezzar. In some years’ time the whole of Babylon will _blah blah blah blah blah_ …”

Aziraphale rubbed his eyes hard with his thumb, doing his best not to sigh audibly. Oh but these office meetings were so dull. First was the traipsing all the way out to the temple in the middle of the night- just for _atmosphere_ , of all the bloody things- putting himself in these silly robes, and then stand in a circle for just ages _listening_ to one another rattle _on_ and _on_. And oh they thought they were being very clandestine, didn’t they? Aziraphale knew better. He lived in town.

Once upon a time, Aziraphale thought, he had probably enjoyed this a little. He was something of an artisan himself, with a care for detail that few of his fellows in demonhood could even dream of having. But, really. A few thousand years he’d been solidly on Earth duty. It could start to seem a little petty. Especially when you compared it to _his_ project.

“Demon Aziraphale.” The group rumbled with a collective rolling of eyes as they turned to him. He snorted, unfortunately loud in the quiet gloom.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, with a gentle clap. “My deed might be quite a bit more bracing.”

\-----

“ _Poetry?_ ” 

Crowley waved around the bunch of Greek-stamped parchment with such a flagrant disrespect, that if he hadn’t still been holding onto it Aziraphale would be tempted to catch him alight. He popped another grape into his mouth, nonplussed.

“Well don’t be a snob, not everything can be the Epic of Gilgamesh.”

“You kicked up such a fuss,” Crowley groused with a mean little snap of teeth, “and made so much trouble to drag me out to this infernal city, for some _poetry_? People could have died, Aziraphale.”

Mentioning that people died all the time regardless of what the two of them did seemed impolitic. He rolled up onto his side, leaning his chin on his hand to watch Crowley stamp around the room. The tension rolled off of him in waves. “I remember when you would do the Epic of Gilgamesh! That was oodles of fun.”

“Don’t try and change the subject–”

“ _I’m_ changing the subject? Who was it that started having a holy tantrum about being asked to come–”

“Oh, and it had to be Babylon, didn’t it?”

Aziraphale picked a grape and threw it at him. He liked Babylon. He would have thought Crowley would appreciate the gardens, but today the stick was a mile deep up his Principality and he had decided to be so obstinately angelic about the whole thing.

“Hundreds of miles away from where I’m meant to be. Not to mention practically the sinningest place this side of the Tigris.”

“It’s a holiday, Crowley. And besides, you owe me.”

Crowley drew in another breath full of protests, which all died on their way out. Huffing, he toed aside Aziraphale’s bowl of fruit and dropped himself down on the mound of cushions and throws that had been conveniently set up that afternoon in the middle of the garden. Aziraphale grinned triumph and laid back.

Sunlight filtered through the fringed ends of Crowley’s hair. If he squinted, Aziraphale thought he could see the faint line of his halo above. Crowley’s words dropped from his lips like something soft and ripe. “ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον, ὃς μάλα πολλὰ …”

Crowley was good. He would even do the voices. Aziraphale loved when he did the voices. It was always good to have something to laugh about in this world. The sun dipped and dipped and sank, and miraculously the makeshift bed stayed warm.

They had just crawled ashore to Scherie when Crowley trailed away. Aziraphale called his name softly. When there was no response, he peeked one eye open.

Crowley looked down at him. His approximal heart fluttered. “Is everything alright, my dear?”

He shook his head. “Damn. I need more holidays.”

He leaned across Aziraphale. His lips tasted like a tart red jewel and it had been worth the wait.

\-----

“So I think, you know, a hundred more years of that, and–” Aziraphale made a popping sound that he hoped got his point across.

The circle of demons stood in silence. At last, one of them sighed.

“You know, Aziraphale… it’s fine to admit if you haven’t gotten anything done.”

“Sloth and indolence are– they’re some fine sins too,” helpfully supplied another. “And you’re so good at ‘em, maybe you’ll rub off on the humans. Proximity and all.”

“We’ve all had dry spells, mate, no shame in it.”

With severity, the biggest and most lumpen shape among them said: “Certainly creative,” in such a tone as to mean, ‘Don’t try so hard, for your sake.’

Aziraphale looked sourly around the circle, wondering if there was anything that felt more pathetic than pity from a demon. A few of them leaned towards him with a prompting that was, Satan help him, almost kind. No, there certainly was nothing like it. Aziraphale shrank deeper into the shadows of his hood. “Of course. Nothing else to report.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it and want to prompt further chapters potentially, feel free to send me a 3-emoji prompt on my blog at withswords.tumblr.com


End file.
